


Wish Fulfillment

by Tseecka



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the first time he's wished he could just say "sod the job" and fly home on the next available plane, but it's the first time he's wanted it quite this badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish Fulfillment

Seb’s always scoffed at those commercials, the websites, the books on the shelves in the stores that proclaim “the power of positive thinking!” Honestly, he thinks voodoo’s more likely to get you what you want than sitting in a room thinking  _really fucking hard_   about whatever it is you want in your life—a new car, a promotion, a decent shag—and black magic shit ain’t real. 

He’s always wondered what sort of pussies resort to those self-help books, how pathetic a sucker’s gotta be to shell out twelve quid for a pile of toilet tissue in the hope that it’ll change his life. Now he knows.

Now he’s stuck in a dank hole of a hotel room because Moriarty’s a spiteful arse who won’t spring for decent digs, with all the lights off, staring at streetlamps blurred by the pouring rain with his back against the paper thin wall and his knees drawn up to his chest and  _aching_.

The “Calling…” icon on his video phone is spinning around and around because Jim won’t pick up the damn thing—he’s all too ready to cut Seb to the core with his words, furiously typed on a keyboard half a world away, first with anger and then with an emotional pain so raw that people in the Far East would probably eat it on rice, but he won’t let Seb hear his voice, see his face, and it hurts. The planes don’t leave until the next morning, and even if there was a flight departing right now, he knows he’ll be worth less than the muck clinging to the tread of Moriarty’s overpriced shoes if he ditches another job. No matter how much Jim says he wants him home, the job always comes first. It’s a bitter truth, a lumpy disgusting pill that’s hard to swallow, but Sebastian does because he’d rather choke on his own inadequacy than face Jim’s disappointment. 

So in lieu of packing his things on a plane and skipping back to London as fast as he’s able, he’s curled in a ball in his hotel room, practically meditating on the raindrops splattering the window and the orange glow of the late-night streetlamp and wishing more fervently than any sad-sack self-help addict could possibly muster. He’s caught some late night TV here and there, ridiculous shit sci-fi and fantasy reruns with seances and spells and whatnot and he’s fuckin’ tried them all; mantras and visualizations and shit he doesn’t even have a word for, all of it underpinned with a thought so strong and so violent that it’s tearing his soul apart:  _I want to come home_.

Johnny Cheesy-Grin and Wanda You-Can-Do-It would piss themselves laughing at the sight; Jim would probably scoff at him, make a snide remark, and tell him he’s getting soft. Maybe he is; but Jim Moriarty’s the one that made him that way, and surprisingly, he realizes doesn’t regret it. 

He comes to that realization at about the same time as he opens eyes that have fallen closed and comes to another surprising realization; he’s sitting at the foot of Jim’s bed, and Jim’s staring at him with wide open eyes. Seb’s got time to notice the handgun sitting, dormant but dark and cruel and obvious, on the bedside table. Then, Jim’s scrambling over the bed, almost comical in his wrinkled sleeves and untucked tails and loosened ties, and he’s wrapping his arms around Seb’s shoulders and clinging to him, kissing his neck, curling fingers into his hair and practically in his lap. 

He doesn’t say he’s sorry, because he never does, but Seb hears the way Jim whispers his name and it’s enough, tonight. He can see the wrinkles in Jim’s shirt through his fingers as he clutches at it, thinks there’s probably a word for this—astral projection, or some shit—but he can’t be bothered to puzzle it out. 

Just this once, it seems, the laws of space and time have unbent themselves and given him this chance, and he kisses Jim as soundly as he can, thankful that his transparency still leaves his form solid as flesh and bone. Jim returns the kiss, shoulders shaking, then pulls away to stare into his eyes from under his brow, shame and sadness and vulnerability written all over his face in a way Seb rarely gets to see. (He hates it, even as he treasures it.)

“How the hell are you here?” Jim asks, voice hoarse, fingers clenching and unclenching in the material of Sebastian’s loose black tee. 

“Power of positive thinking?” Sebastian offers with a wry, humourless laugh. His voice breaks to match Jim’s, and they meet again in a scorching, needy kiss, and just for these few hours, they’re both willing to suspend their disbelief. 


End file.
